


Nothing To Live For Except...

by ladyoneill



Series: Lady O's Teen Wolf Bingo Stories [90]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Lydia Martin, Blood, Eichen | Echo House, Gen, Restraints, Suicide Attempt, Urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2548895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/ladyoneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in Eichen House, half-insane, Peter doesn't see any reason to keep living until she comes to see him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing To Live For Except...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hurt/comfort bingo prompt: suicide attempt. Beware there are multiple attempts.

It was very difficult for a werewolf to commit suicide, but Peter was determined. He let the wolfsbane laden drugs build up in his system for two weeks in the hope he'd develop a tolerance to them before his first attempt.

The cheap sheets tore before his neck broke.

Going without air for nearly ten minutes left him brain damaged for nearly a month during which he spent most of his time in a straightjacket, drooling down his chin.

Once he was himself again, he was revolted by what he'd become and even more determined.

Still, he was sane enough to lull the guards and doctors into letting him out of the restraints and start feeding himself again.

The stolen knife sharpened on the walls of his cell cut straight and true over the veins in his wrist, but, while he bled copiously and died for a few minutes, the guards found him before it was too late to revive him.

As he rocked in a corner, once again restrained, stitched wrists slowly healing, he wondered why they bothered.

Peter was determined not to spend the rest of his life in this hell hole. Somehow he'd get out and since the only out was death, he would keep seeking it.

Sometimes he wondered at this desire to die. A year before he'd been so desperate to live he'd found himself an anomaly, used dark magics, and resurrected himself from the grave. But, a lot had changed since then. During the six years of catatonia, he'd prayed for death and once he was released from it, he swore never to be trapped again.

Eichen House was a trap he couldn't escape. His shattered mind was an even worse one.

He had to get out.

It was two weeks before they removed the straightjacket and another three days before he could move his arms and shoulders. Unfortunately, they were monitoring him much more closely now. He wasn't given anything he could turn into a tool or weapon. Even his shoelaces were gone and his mattress was bare of sheets and blankets. When he tried to figure out a way to pry a pipe off the sink, they removed that and he was provided with a soft plastic bowl of water once a day.

Not wanting to be reduced to peeing in a bowl or using a catheter, he forced himself not to take apart the toilet.

The next idea that came to him was starvation, but he knew they'd figure that out quickly enough and force feed him, so he added dehydration to that plan.

Three or four days without water and food and he'd die.

After the first day, his mouth was bone-dry and his stomach ached painfully, but he refused to go near the three trays they shoved into his cell. He slept fitfully and awoke to one of the worst of the guards taunting him, saying they'd just hook him up to an IV if he kept it up, but if he wanted to go hungry for a week, no one cared.

Realizing they didn't know he wasn't drinking, Peter made sure to take the cup of water off each tray and pretend to drink it. By the end of the second day, he came damn close to doing so, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to pour it out when using the toilet. The camera only showed his back when doing so.

He didn't sleep at all that night and when they placed a fresh bowl of water in his cell along with the tray, he nearly cried at the temptation, but he used it only to wash. The day was spent pacing and dozing, and the guards mostly ignored him, removing the full trays a couple hours after dropping them off. By dinner, he was so hungry and thirsty he had to dig his claws into his thighs to keep from crawling to the tray and devouring its contents.

But, his will was stronger than that.

That night, Peter slept, restless, stomach in knots and mouth dry as a desert, and dreamed of fire sucking away all the moisture in his skin, leaving horrific scars and pain, so much pain. Waking screaming, he curled into a tight ball, rocking and choking on the lack of saliva. His thoughts began to dim and his eyes grew heavy and he knew.

This time he'd succeed.

Peter awakened to sun on his face and when he opened his eyes and saw he was in a hospital room, strapped down to the bed with wolfsbane laced bonds, he started to cry. That he could make tears told him the IV in his arm was pumping saline into him, and, helpless and desperate and lost, he just cried harder.

When he finally stopped, he rolled his head and stared at the wired and barred window into the winter sky and his wolf howled in despair, wanting outside so badly, but Peter was too tired to want anything but death.

As he grew stronger, his thoughts sharpened and he ran through new scenarios.

The doctors, who did nothing to try to help his shattered psyche, just kept him maddeningly alive, finally released him back to his cell after two days, and the first thing that happened was a guard stood over him and made sure he ate and drank. When he made a move to the toilet to vomit everything up, they strapped him to his bed, releasing him only for meals and to use the toilet.

To his humiliation, in the middle of that first night back in his cell, one of the most sadistic guards ignored his plea and he ended up wetting himself. He wasn't given clean clothes or a new mattress for two days--on the once a week schedule--and he was nearly suffocated by the smell of stale urine in his cell.

It was the following day, as he lay trapped on his bed, staring at the ceiling, slowly going even more insane from the lack of mental and visual stimulation, that his cell door opened between meals, but whomever entered said nothing.

Gradually his curiosity got the better of him and he turned his eyes towards the door only to grunt in surprise.

"I am tired of screaming for you Peter Hale. Cut it out."

Like a breath of fresh and angry air, Lydia stood there, arms crossed over her chest, foot in a delicious pair of Jimmy Choo's tapping in annoyance on the concrete floor. Her eyes glittered and her red hair swung as she crossed the room and bent to unstrap him, then stepped back to wait for him to move.

Slowly Peter sat up, then rose to his feet, swaying slightly from several hours being so still, then he ran at the mountain ash infused hard plastic wall and with every ounce of will he'd been building, cracked his forehead against it. For a moment he made contact before bouncing back and collapsing on the floor. Pain exploded in his head, blood blinded him, and he scrabbled to his feet to try again, but strong little arms grabbed him from behind, wrestling his weakened body away from the wall.

"Stop it!" Lydia yelled, then, when he pulled away and ran for the wall a second time, she screamed, and the banshee's wail sent him to his knees, hands over his ears, his howl of pain joining her cry.

Before he could recover, the guards were there, dragging him back to the bed and the chains that bound his arms over his head to a ring in the padded wall. As the pain in his head grew, he tuned out the arguments between Lydia and the guards, but slowly he came back to himself.

And felt a cloth gently wiping the blood from his face. When he could see, he blinked up into Lydia's worried eyes.

"The wound on your forehead isn't closing and your nose is broken."

"Wolfsbane drugs," he choked out, spitting blood from his split cheek. He was a bit surprised when she didn't jerk back, just wiped that up as well, then turned slightly to rinse the cloth in the water bowl. 

"Why don't you have a sink?"

"Tried to put the pipe through my throat."

Sighing, Lydia, rose to request clean water from a sullen guard and, as she waited for him to return, turned to shake her head at Peter. "Peter, this has to stop."

"Why? Who'd miss me?" Hurt and tired, he was completely honest with himself and her. "Scott should have killed me."

"Do you think he left you alive to punish you?"

Of course, and he tried to convey that to her in a look that left her rolling her eyes.

"You really don't know anything about him. Killing will always be his absolute last resort. He thinks everyone, even you, can be redeemed."

"Should have bitten Stiles that night instead of Scotty pureheart," Peter muttered and almost smiled when she snorted.

"Probably. He was all for someone putting you down rather than putting you in here."

"Smart boy." The guard returned and passed her the bowl. When she returned to sit on the edge of his mattress and resume cleaning him, he noticed how gentle she was being, even more so when he winced in pain as she dabbed at his nose.

"I can set this but it's going to hurt."

"Already hurts and since it doesn't seem to be stopping me from breathing--Jesus, Lydia, careful!" he exclaimed as two delicate fingers jerked his nose back into place, releasing another gush of blood, which she wiped up.

When Peter was finally clean she asked, "Do you have other clothes?"

"Once a week. Got three more days." Shooting her a resigned look, he shrugged. "The blood smell will fade."

"That's unacceptable."

Peter wasn't really surprised when she harangued the guards into bringing him clean clothes. That she refused to leave when they released him from his chains to let him change--though she turned her back--did surprise him. When they chained him back to the wall, Lydia took her seat next to his hip again and shook her head at him.

"The conditions here are deplorable. Are they even trying to help you?"

"This isn't therapy, Lydia. It's a prison. The only reason I can see that they're trying to stop me from killing myself, is that they're all sadistic bastards who want me to suffer." Sighing, he rolled his head to stare at the wall. "You should go. I'm not going to get out of these chains for a long time." If ever, he thought silently. Meals and toilet breaks if he was lucky, though he wouldn't be surprised if they stuck a catheter and feeding tube into him and never let him out of restraints again.

Her hand cupping his cheek startled him into looking back at her. "This is wrong. No one deserves this." A determined look filled her eyes and her shoulders straightened. "I'm going to get you out of here and into the main hospital. If they're dosing you with wolfsbane, you're not a threat to anyone but yourself, but you have to stop that, Peter. They'll never let you upstairs, never let you start to heal if you keep trying to kill yourself."

"You're delusional."

A slow smile crossed her face. "No, what I am is extremely determined, and, considering that I didn't bring a public lawsuit against this place after I was nearly murdered here by the same man who murdered my grandmother, but agreed to a private settlement, they still owe me." Rising to her feet she stared down at him until he hesitantly met her eyes. "No more suicide attempts."

His answer was a despondent rattling of his chains.

"I'm not ready to scream for you for real, Peter."

"...Why?" he whispered, because why would she, of all people, help him?

"When you're sane and out of here, we'll talk." As she spoke, her hand trailed from her shoulder, lightly over her breast, to her waist, and his breath caught in his throat as he remembers his claws and fangs taking that same path. "I have a use for you, Peter, and you owe me." Turning, she went to the door and banged on it to get the guard's attention, then glanced back over her shoulder. "You made me a part of your Pack. You initiated a bond and used me for your own purposes, but you also freed me. I owe you for that, too."

"You don't owe me anything," he muttered, almost embarrassed at the memories of all he'd done to her.

"Something else to talk about, but, mostly, you owe Scott and what he needs, even if he won't admit it, is a Pack Elder."

Surprise hit him. What?

As the door opened, Lydia gave him a brilliant smile. "Heal, Peter. I'll be back soon enough."

She'd been gone for about an hour when Peter's confused brain finally stopped spinning over all she'd said, all she wanted from him, intentions both expressed and not. When he started to think rationally, he realized his desire to die was fading.

He wasn't convinced she could get him out of here, get him somewhere he could not only see the sun but feel it on his skin, but if she came back...

If she did return...

Maybe that would be enough.

For the first time in months, Peter found a reason to live.

End


End file.
